


Little Boxes

by 99_Girl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Beligerent Sexual Tension, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Good Slytherins, Hogwarts Politics, Kabby, Kabby in Hogwarts, M/M, Multi, Possible smuttiness in future, The 100 AU: Fantasy Setting, The 100 AU: Harry Potter, The Sorting Hat, Workplace Relationship, kid Delinquents, kid bellamy blake, kid clarke griffin, kid raven reyes, kid wells jaha, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 14:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7848508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99_Girl/pseuds/99_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hold him still, please!” Abby opens her patient’s mouth in order to pour a valerian tincture down his throat. He’s a Second Year named Nathan Miller who was rushed to the medical wing after stepping in front of a Tickling Hex intended for his best friend. Had the hex come from any other witch, poor Mr. Miller would have stopped giggling and rolling by now, but Abby knew the assailant all too well-- well enough to recognize that without intervention, young Miller will be in for hours of torment. Her daughter, Clarke, has proven to be one of the most powerful witches in First Year and, when especially motivated, Clarke’s magic packs a wallop.</p>
<p>From the prompt: Abby (Pomfrey), Kane (DatD) kids keep injuring themselves and Abby thinks that Kane is a bad teacher. Then they chaperone an event together and she realizes that he’s amazing with kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boxes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This fic will mainly focus on Kabby for a bit, but the Delinquents will be featured throughout, with the story spanning multiple years. Planning to write this in multiple perspectives, which I'm excited about because I haven't done that in a while, so I'm looking forward to your feedback.
> 
> Thanks to my Tumblr-buddy, ravensluna, for tirelessly beta-ing my stuff, as well as encouraging me not to procrastinate, AND making me this beautiful art for this fic!
> 
> However, I'm "pantsing" this story for now, while I finish up some WIP and meta, so it won't be updated on a regular schedule. 
> 
> Feel free to drop by on my [Tumblr](https://loft-meeting.tumblr.com)  
> and you'll find ravensluna's awesome art blog [there](https://bloodofstarsart.tumblr.com) as well
> 
> One last note: I mention a "Professor Rayyan", and that's referring to Luna. I needed to give her a last name, and since the actress is half-Tunisian, I decided to give her an Arabic surname. Rayyan means "watered and luxuriant".

 

 

“Hold him still, please!” Abby opens her patient’s mouth in order to pour a valerian tincture down his throat. He’s a Second Year named Nathan Miller who was rushed to the medical wing after stepping in front of a Tickling Hex intended for his best friend. Had the hex come from any other witch, poor Mr. Miller would have stopped giggling and rolling by now, but Abby knew the assailant all too well-- well enough to recognize that without intervention, young Miller will be in for hours of torment. Her daughter, Clarke, has proven to be one of the most powerful witches in First Year and, when especially motivated, Clarke’s magic packs a wallop.

A tall man with glossy black hair, whom Abby doesn’t recognize, is the one who carried the interminably wriggling Miller here. Clarke stands close by, twiddling her braids and looking properly shamed. The boy she’d been attempting to hex sits on an adjacent bed to Miller’s, looking terrified for his friend. Crisply businesslike, Abby waves the boy over: “Mr. Blake, please hold Mr. Miller’s feet still before he hurts himself. Your name is Bellamy Blake, correct?” He nods, eyes glittering with tears in the afternoon sun beaming through the windows.

“Well, Mr. Blake. It’s a good thing you’re here. In a few minutes, Mr. Miller will be back to himself and he’ll have you to keep him company.” Bellamy smiles up at her and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Abby gestures for Clarke to retrieve a tissue, which the child passes to Bellamy with tiny, shaking hands and tear tracks down her bright pink cheeks.

Encouragingly, Abby nudges Clarke’s arm. “Miss Griffin, do you have something to say to Masters Miller and Blake?”

Her daughter toes at the stone floor, streams a brackish murmur, then seems to regain her trademark composure. “I’m sorry,” she says, clear and genuine.

Miller is still too taken by the hex to speak, but he grunts in weak acknowledgment. The other boy, however, scowls and turns his back with crossed arms and an even crosser _hrrrumph_.

Fearing that any moment her daughter’s earnest remorse will turn baleful because of Blake’s response, Abby decides to diffuse things by sending Clarke on an errand. The young girl loves feeling useful and taking care of others. “Clarke, would you please go alert Professor Rayyan that I’ll be late for our tea?”

The child twirls on the spot, robes swinging wide, then waves kindly at Miller. In a streak of flaxen, green, and silver she scampers out of the hospital, ripe with new purpose.

“So! Mr. Miller,” the boy’s body has already calmed and he’s struggling to sit up, “it looks as though you’re starting to feel better. I’m going to leave you in Mr. Blake’s capable care and borrow Professor...?” Her brows lift in question.

The strange new man snaps out of whatever reverie he’s been in. “My apologies, Madame Griffin.” He bows slightly, his hair gently waving with the movement. Abby has to admit that she likes the look of him. “I’m Professor Marcus Kane. I recently took the post of Defense Against The Dark Arts.”

Lips pursing involuntarily, Abby checks on the boys one last time, then jerks her head towards the end of the room. Shoulders set, she marches briskly out of earshot; it seems like her skirts are rustling much more loudly than usual. Abruptly stopping short of an upholstered stone bench, she turns and collides forcefully with Professor Kane’s chest. His arms fly to her shoulders in steadying support, which causes her to jolt at his warm touch. He’s looking down at her in friendly assessment, but she notes that he’s holding his breath. She coolly assures herself that it’s natural for her, a medical professional, to pay close attention to how this man reacts to physical contact.

It’s a feat, but Abby manages to step backwards and sit on the bench without wavering. “Please sit, Professor Kane. We need to talk.” He joins her, carefully perching himself on the lip of the seat and far enough away so as not to brush up against her.

“By all means, Madame Griffin. What can I do for you?” He’s a confident man, which Abby appreciates. Eye contact is something so few people value anymore, but she prefers the honesty of it. It’s one of the many things she’d loved about her late husband.

“Well, Professor,” she begins, “welcome to Hogwarts and I hope that you’re enjoying it here-”

Cheerfully, “Oh I am, thank you.”

“- I suppose that I’m just curious how this happened.” Remembering her daughter’s part in the events in question, brow furrowed, she levels him with a look that demands candor.

His laugh is rich velvet and drapes over them, making her feel relaxed, comfortable. “Madame Griffin, the truth is that my First Years have all shown considerable command of the learning material, so I thought it might be worthwhile for them to take part in on a Second Year class to see what they’d be studying next year, perhaps learn a few advanced techniques to get ahead of the curve.”  Abby feels her smile wilt into a frown.

“You’re saying that you altered their class schedules to fulfill a self-aggrandizing fantasy that your teaching is good enough for your _First Years_ to learn the materials appropriate for Second Years?” Face now captive to a scowl, Abby drops the air of propriety expected of Hogwarts staff and allows her disapproval to animate her accordingly.

Sputtering, he flushes in embarrassment, though a shadow of something feral and prideful lurks in his eye. His whisper is deceptively calm. “That is not the case at all, Madame Griffin, and I resent the implication.”

Mindful of the two boys nearby, she matches his quiet hiss. “Then I beg you, _please_ explain to me why you felt this was a good idea. Having them watch is one thing, but having the First Years, including my daughter, actively participate? That’s completely different.” She’s seething.

Fulfilling her prediction that he can be a bit of a blowhard, Kane’s chest puffs up-- presumably from the volume of his heated retort, but then he pauses and tilts his head. Exhaling slowly, he croaks, “Your daughter?” Bending forward, elbows to knees, he stares at the floor. “Clarke is your daughter.”

All her anger coalesces in her lungs and she releases it in a protracted sigh. Chuckling, “That obvious, huh?”

This evokes a smile from Professor Kane. He sits up, gazing at Abby intently and with warm regard. “Let’s just say I can see a similar spark in you both.”

Conflict averted, they sit companionably for a moment. His profile is strong lines and soft expression and she’s feeling increasingly drawn to him by the minute. Their corner is dark and still and she finds herself missing his reassuring warmth, but that makes her feel odd and a bit raw, so she pushes the thought way, way back in her mind.

“Clarke is a wonderful kid. She has so much talent, too.”

It’s not something Abby hasn’t heard before, but from Professor Kane it reads as more than perfunctory praise you’d give the child of a coworker. It’s genuine appreciation for Clarke as a person.

“Thank you, Professor. I agree.” Something _pings_ in her mind and she’s serious again. “But please tell me what caused the altercation.”

Lounging back against the wall in genial languor, he crosses his legs and looks towards the boys chatting energetically, framed in bright golden light and sparkling motes. “Ah, well, it wasn’t entirely Clarke’s fault.”

This is good news to Abby, because as sweet and considerate as Clarke is, she can be a bit of a wildcard. “Let me guess. Mr. Blake said something that made her angry?”

“Got it in one, Madame Griffin. He called her ‘Princess’.”

“Ooof!” Abby shakes her head. “Big, big mistake. She certainly wouldn’t take that well.” After smoothing her stiff, tidy skirts, she shifts and leans back as well. “What prompted him to call her that?”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’d say that it was a combination of her surname, general bearing, and the fact that she’s just as good at the course material as Mr. Blake. She taunted him about his wand technique, as well. Not to mention that all the kids in her class seem to defer to her judgment.” Professor Kane catches Abby’s eye. “Why is that, by the way?”

Quizzically, “Why is what?”

“Why do all of her classmates look to her so much?”

Annoyance pricks at Abby once more. “Why wouldn’t they trust her? She looks out for them. Moments ago you said she’s a great kid.”

Professor Kane sits up and watches Abby warily. “Well, it’s just...”

“ _Please_ , Professor. Continue,” she encourages, the statement lacquered in angry promise. A visible shutter vibrates through him; she continues to stare, bracing herself for what she thinks he’s about to say.

“I can see why her housemates would trust her that much, but the others, well...” Nervously tapping on the bench, this time he avoids eye contact, “Gryffindors don’t typically trust Slytherins.”

A familiar, molten rage tunnels through her and it’s an actual struggle to stop her temper erupting. Standing, she commands, “Wait here,” before bustling away to ascertain young Miller’s condition.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Miller? You two seem to be enjoying yourselves.” The forced smile she’d initially sported en route is replaced by a genuine one at the boys’ jovial giggles.

“Yes, Madame Griffin. Thank you!” Both of them reach out to shake one of her hands.

She reciprocates the gesture and pronounces Miller free to go, then makes a mental note to find out more about what happened with the Blake boy from Clarke herself. Hands on hips, she turns to watch them as they skip out into the hall. In the corner of her eye, there’s movement.

“I told you to wait there.”

Professor Kane scoffs derisively and stalks towards her. “Madame, please understand that I have no intention of insulting your daughter.”

A few steps forward and Abby meets him, stands tense, all pretense dropped and hoping that no one enters. “Look, Professor. I get the impression that you haven’t been here for long, but I would think that would make you _more_ open minded, not less!” Petite they may be, but both Abby and Clarke definitely fill a room, especially when angered.

“Clarke’s classmates all trust her because she cares about them and she’s brilliant, Professor. There really isn’t much more to it. And, what about Blake and Miller? You saw them together. Miller is Slytherin and Blake is Hufflepuff. Blake seems to trust his friend plenty!”

Professor Kane holds his hands up defensively, as if worried Abby will brandish her wand and hit him with something much worse than a Tickling Hex. “Let’s be fair, Madame! Hufflepuffs are generally more trusting of the other houses-”

Cutting him off, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Her boots scrape rhythmically as she begins to pace, scowling at the floor and intermittently tossing a withering stare in Professor Kane’s direction. “ _This_ is the issue with the House system! These kids are evaluated in moments and spend the rest of their lives shoved in discrete factions, stigmatized and stereotyped, practically living in different worlds. It’s divisive and unconscionable!” The man before her stands dumbstruck, startled, and completely trapped. Her eyes are wild and tendrils of her long hair come loose from their tie and float around her face.

She gestures broadly and at nothing in particular. “I’ll have you know, Professor Kane, that Clarke _chose_ to be in Slytherin. The hat was leaning towards Ravenclaw, but despite all of the stigma and animosity towards Slytherins, she chose to be there because she herself felt it was right, and my daughter wasn’t going to be afraid of who she is. She looks for the good in people. I trust her, believe in her. I’m proud of her! And _no one,_ especially not some upstart, narcissistic, prejudiced Professor, is going to disparage her for that!” Blood thunders in her ears: it’s making her lightheaded. “Please go,” she whispers.

“Madame, I-” Looking ashamed, he attempts a step towards her.

“PLEASE!” Her pained bellow rings in his ears for hours after.

**Author's Note:**

> What'd you think? I'd love to know. Thanks for taking the time to read!


End file.
